


And I Will Come Out to Meet You

by cherryberry12



Series: RarePair Bingo 2019 [3]
Category: Naruto
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Arranged Marriage, F/M, Rarepair Bingo, and by implied i mean.... very VERY lightly implied, background hashimada, implied one-sided HashiMito, tobirama is somehow a lot more into this than mito is
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-24
Updated: 2019-06-24
Packaged: 2020-05-18 17:40:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,096
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19339375
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cherryberry12/pseuds/cherryberry12
Summary: "He asks if Konoha is to her liking, if it is a change that is manageable for her, and Mito answers in the affirmative. She says nothing more, her words bound to her as if with one of her seals.Tobirama’s fuuinjutsu prowess may not equal hers, but he understands equally well the need to select words carefully, to use them sparingly, and so he does not press her."





	And I Will Come Out to Meet You

**Author's Note:**

> For the prompt, "Tobirama." Originally written for the Arranged Marriage prompt but I had to do a little bit of shuffling-- 
> 
> Title taken from Li Po's "The River Merchant's Wife," which I would definitely recommend reading as a companion to this fic! It's, uhh, much shorter, and manages to say in a few hundred words what took me several thousand :)

Tobirama meets Mito for the first time on the day of their wedding. 

His first impression is that she’s much alike the portraits of her he’d been sent—firm shoulders, a straight back, hair bound into impossibly tight buns on the top of her head. Unlike the rest of her clansmen she’s tall, unexpectedly so, and when they stand opposite each other her eyes are almost directly level with his. Her gaze is cool and appraising as his brother speaks with her clansman, silently flowing over his face and shoulders and, curiously, his hands, but she seems otherwise uninterested to the proceedings. 

Mito’s own hands are fuuinjutsu hands—she has long crafty fingers with thick calluses on the edges where a brush might be held. He only sees them for a moment when they shake hands, and then they disappear within her robes, hidden away under the heavy layers. 

Hashirama throws an arm around her shoulders, holding her familiarly as he often does with complete strangers. They are closer than that, Tobirama supposes, because he has said very little to Mito himself, preferring to let Hashirama handle the bulk of their arrangements. 

“He’s quite a catch, Mito, you are an incredibly lucky woman!” 

She gives Hashirama a long look and then nods with a sliver of a smile. “He is, after all, your brother,” she says, then turns to follow her clansmen into the village. 

Mito is, he’d been told, one of their most ingenious fuuinjutsu masters, and this high praise. She is undeniably a woman of incredible insight and ability, and now she will be his wife, bound to him as their clans will be bound through them. 

As expected, she performs flawlessly throughout the ceremony, exchanging rings and cups with him without spilling a single drop, without once meeting his eyes. All of her movements are deliberate and smooth, the work of someone who does not waste a single twitch of her finger. 

They complete their vows and her voice does not waver, does not sink beneath or overwhelm his, and Tobirama finds himself increasingly relieved, continually impressed by her demeanor. There is a good deal of unpredictability in an arranged marriage, and despite the wealth of accomplishments that recommend Mito to him, Tobirama prefers to observe a matter first hand before drawing conclusions. 

He watches Mito introduce herself to Sarutobi Sasuke, complimenting the scrolls he has secured at his hip, and his nerves are further set at ease. 

Still, when Tobirama looks to her, Mito does not meet his eyes and something about that seems strange. He walks over to stand next to her and she does not react to his presence. Sasuke excuses himself, giving them both his best wishes, and even then Mito does not speak to him until he addresses her first, noting that Sasuke’s wife will be expecting their first child in the next few months, and that they were having a boy. When she finally turns to acknowledge him, she does not look down in the demure, submissive way of his mother, who would cower and scurry between the rooms of her own home, but she does not address him directly, either. 

“How fortunate for them.” Mito stands stiff, firm as if she’d been born with steel in her spine. Her gaze is level, her eyes just slightly off-center, staring firmly over his shoulder or in the corner of his eye. 

It is not simply a quirk of her personality because she regards his brother warmly, her lips melting into a soft smile when Hashirama approaches them, her laughter muffled behind the intricate stitching of her sleeves when Tobirama is lifted up in a crushing hug, Hashirama’s arms thick as tree trunks when he sweeps Tobirama off of his feet. 

It must be nerves, Tobirama tells himself, because he is a man she has never met before, and now they will spend their lives together. 

They leave early, but the party seems likely to continue long into the night. Mito’s high-born kinsmen pass around bottles of sake and break into drinking songs with Hashirama and Touka, seeing them off with some song about a sculptor falling in love with the statue of a woman he’s crafted.

It is not one Tobirama has heard before (though he can count on one hand the drinking songs he’s heard in his lifetime), but the song’s mention of fuuinjutsu tells him it’s likely one from Mito’s homeland, one that of course his brother would still know. The singers enter a verse describing the sculptor’s attempts to bring the statue to life and suddenly the song is absolutely obscene, unbelievably filthy. 

Tobirama shakes his head and guides Mito away from the party with a firm hand on her back.

It’s the middle of summer, hot and humid enough that Mito shrugs off his hand and stands an arm’s length away from him, her hands clasped in front of her as they walk. At least, he assumes this is why she does this, though presumably Konoha would be much cooler than her native land. He considers what he knows of Uzushio, what he’s read in preparation for her arrival.

Tobirama offers what he can: “The trees here absorb a good deal of moisture; it is still somewhat humid, but it will likely be much different from what you have known.”

“Interesting.” Mito’s voice is low and much deeper than he initially realized but it’s certain, unwavering like her pace as they walk. She looks straight ahead down the dusky Konoha streets, never once back at him.

He asks if Konoha is to her liking, if it is a change that is manageable for her, and Mito answers in the affirmative. She says nothing more, her words bound to her as if with one of her seals. 

Tobirama’s fuuinjutsu prowess may not equal hers, but he understands equally well the need to select words carefully, to use them sparingly, and so he does not press her.  
.  
.  
.  
Their first night together is quick with only few complications, a few natural missteps Tobirama knows will be worked out in subsequent encounters. Almost immediately afterwards Mito climbs out of bed, pulling her robes back around her and tying her belt with a sharp yank. She goes to wash and Tobirama is alone in his bed, which has now become their bed. 

Mito is not gone for very long, however, and she settles back into bed when she returns, her shower-fresh hair loose and clinging to her bare forearms, leaving wet spots where it spreads on the mattress. Tobirama has a very good view of her hair, in fact, because Mito turns over to sleep with her back to him, keeping several inches of space between them. 

It seems unusual for a newly wedded couple, but Mito is entitled to her own comforts. 

“Good night, then,” he says, though Mito does not respond.

In the morning he wakes early to return to work, not wanting to fall behind like so many newly-married men do. Mito sleeps through his morning routine, and he does not see a need to wake her before he leaves only so that he can say goodbye. 

Mito is clever, he knows. She will understand.

Being the younger brother of the Hokage, there is almost always some matter requiring Tobirama’s attention: an endless stream of petty local affairs he refuses to overlook or delegate, numerous ongoing correspondences with clans outside of the village he will entrust to no one else. 

Hashirama deals in dreams and principles, feels organically the abstract shifts and changes in human behavior, human desires, while Tobirama keeps to the minor, wordly details, smoothing out imperfections in the village’s order one revised expense report at a time. 

Their roles are both integral to the village: Hashirama leads with bold, broad strokes, and Tobirama sighs in his wake, patching holes in the banner of ideals his brother hangs over the village. Tobirama brings order to the well-meaning chaos sown by Hashirama and Hashirama’s troublesome husband who, in spite of their shared goals, still sneers at him when they pass in the hallways, purposely twines his fingers with Hashirama’s whenever Tobirama enters his office. 

Tobirama’s tolerance of Madara is, perhaps, the greatest testament to his love for his brother. 

“How soon do you think we’ll be at war with Uzushio, Hashirama?” Madara asks one day, nearly a month after the wedding. He’s idly sorting through paperwork he has spread messily across Hashirama’s desk, removing one of his gloves to thumb through a particular folder. Madara hums thoughtfully, taking on what seems to Tobirama to be an obviously fake concern. “They’ve given us their princess, and we’ve given her a husband who can’t bear to be seen with her!”

Tobirama’s tightens his grip on the papers he’s brought but does not rise to Madara’s bait, does not give Madara any satisfaction in his attempt to embarrass him. 

Theirs is quite noticeably a love marriage, could never have been an arranged marriage when their clans had been at war for generations. Even so, it’s served the same purpose in bringing the Senju and Uchiha clans together. The love Madara and Hashirama share is saccharine, so unaware of itself that Tobirama more than once has found himself unintentionally intruding upon it. 

It is, he supposes, a love so voluminous that they truly cannot contain it, though they certainly make no attempt to do so; Hashirama and Madara love, and that love overflows.

He thinks, somewhat self-consciously, of his own marriage before banishing the thought. Mito’s expectations of such a thing would necessarily be different, much more reasonable and practical, and the way Tobirama sees his brother and Madara fawn over each other during council meetings is not reasonable or practical.

And, not to mention, it would take a good deal of love before it became something neither he or Mito could somehow manage to contain. 

Tobirama becomes very productive in their first couple months of marriage, but Mito too is productive. 

Tobirama seeks out her chakra throughout his workday and finds her hurrying through the marketplace or waiting patiently where he knows there is a parchment store. He does not ask, but assumes she is either shopping for fuuinjutsu supplies or stationery for the many letters she’s sent back to Uzushio since their wedding. 

The Yamanaka clan moves into the village and they’re followed shortly by the Akimichi and the Nara, and within days of their respective arrivals he feels Mito’s chakra traveling to their compounds, paying social calls to the clan heads and their wives, cementing their ties over shared lunches.

It is good that he is able to follow her in this way, because Mito shares very little about her goings on otherwise. Most nights when he returns home it is only him, Mito, and the professional silence they keep, and Tobirama is often quick to bed after a long day of work.  
.  
.  
.  
Hashirama takes a particular interest in the marriage, not only because he is the Hokage and wants their alliance to work, but because Tobirama is his brother, and the better things are between Tobirama and Mito the likelier it is Hashirama will have a niece or nephew to spoil.

Four months after the wedding Tobirama is eating dinner in his office and proofreading a letter, tilting his head to the side to eat as he writes to ensure he does not stain his clean draft. The letter is meant to be taken to the daimyo by a squad leaving the next morning and, as is typical, Madara’s clunky grammar is in sore need of correction. 

He switches between his chopsticks and his pen as he reads, removing more of Madara’s superfluous commas, breaking up endless, breathless sentences. Bringing order to chaos. 

Hashirama is the only other person left in the building, and he shuffles past Tobirama’s office door on his way out, throwing him a desperate look. “Why are you still here, Tobi? Mito is home alone!” 

Tobirama does not bother to stop writing. “Your husband’s grammar is atrocious, and of course I am the one who will fix it. Mito is no stranger to eating meals alone.” 

Hashirama groans, and Tobirama hears the slap of his palm against his forehead. “She should be used to eating with you: her husband! You need to spend time with her, Tobi, not spending every waking hour here. She is your wife!” 

Tobirama has no reply for that, and Hashirama adds, “You must at least try to get to know her; you must have some common interests. At the very least, stop hiding from her!” 

He’s up from his desk in an instant. “I am not—” but before he can say anything further, Hashirama snickers and begins to walk away, his voice echoing down the hall.

“You’ll just have to prove me wrong, then!”  
.  
.  
.  
Mito is seated at the kotatsu when he returns home, drinking tea and writing margin notes on a seal she’s crafting. Dark blue ink stains the tips of her fingers, a smudge just under her lip caused, he imagines, by the thoughtful way she taps her chin as she writes. A servant stands nearby at the basin, washing several dishes.

He bows politely when Tobirama enters, and then returns to his cleaning. Mito does not look up, and continues to write.

She is his wife and, he realizes, entirely indifferent to his existence. 

As always, Hashirama has imparted to him a cause, explained a theory to be implemented, and now it falls to Tobirama to see the fine details of it worked out. To find the mistakes, and to correct them. 

He sits down across from Mito and clears his throat. He needs the extra breath to think over his words, to chart a course of action, though it does serve the additional purpose of getting Mito’s attention before he speaks. “You clansmen are especially distinguished seal makers.”

Mito’s eyes slide over to him, and Tobirama does not miss the annoyed twitch in the corner of her mouth. Her lips are painted a deep red, a darker and more intense shade than her hair, and they part to reveal stark white teeth when she responds, “Our prowess is unmatched.” It is not necessarily combative, though he senses a warning under her words, a readiness to defend her reputation against any affront.

“I am sure your technique is beyond reproach.”

Her eyes narrow suspiciously, red lips curling. “It is.” 

“We could perhaps,” and he pauses, unsure of what it is exactly he might do with her. “Perhaps you might one day wish to view my notes. I have undertaken a number of studies, which you are of course welcome to peruse at your leisure, and—” 

“Do you believe I am in need of instruction, dear husband?”

It’s not the most charitable response, and Tobirama hears very little fondness in the way she enunciates _dear husband_. 

For the first time, it occurs to him that Mito is perhaps not fond of him at all. Not in the least. 

They’re meant to spend the rest of their lives together, and the way their relationship is now is certainly not conducive to it. 

Tobirama quietly excuses himself rather than further fuel her animosity, and Mito goes back to her seal. Making peace with her is a greater undertaking than he’d originally imagined, and he’ll need to consider it further.  
.  
.  
.  
Before retiring each night, Mito sits at a vanity she installed in their bedroom, her posture regally straight and her back, of course, turned to him. She hums lightly and pulls the pins out of her hair one at a time, placing each in a mother-of-pearl dish she brought with her from Uzushio, an heirloom in the shape of an upturned scallop shell. 

Tobirama lies in bed and finds his eyes unwittingly drawn to her, whatever scrolls he brought home with him lying open on his lap.

The sheer mass of hair Mito has requires quite a number of pins to contain, and so she spends several minutes removing them all, a light ping sounding from across the room as each pin is discarded. She then removes the clasps from which her seals hang, and when she pulls out the last pins her hair tumbles down, a twisting rush of scarlet that pours down her back, falling low enough that, if she wished, she might have sat on it.

He imagines telling her this but, as if held under genjutsu, Mito sits and hums nonsensical rhythms to herself as if Tobirama were not there at all, and he is minutely aware that it is this invisibility that allows her to relax her shoulders as she works, smiling back at her own reflection when she brushes stray hairs from her face.

Objectively speaking, it is a beautiful smile, though it is one she has never directed towards him. 

Mito only ever does this at night, presumably when she is certain she will not need to leave their home again. Their room is lit by the soft candlelight Tobirama needs to read, her deft hands throwing long shadows against the walls as she sections off pieces of her hair, tossing red coils over her shoulder as she arranges it. 

And then she brushes it: wielding her brush as well as he’s ever seen a man wield a kunai, her strokes so smooth and her hair so silky that Tobirama swears he sees impossible sparks crackle on the surface of it, fire in its depths. 

He realizes he is the only person who ever sees Mito in such a way, and the thought breeds a restlessness in him, a strange possessiveness he has done nothing to deserve.  
.  
.  
.  
Nights later he reaches for her, placing his hand on the silken belt tied around her waist, and finds he is able to feel the heat of her body under his hand, warm through the thin layers of her nightdress. He leaves it there for a few moments to gauge her reaction and Mito offers no resistance but shows no true interest either, her eyes pointed upwards towards the ceiling.

“Do you mind this?” he asks, although the question he truly wishes to ask is, _Do you want this as I want this?_ Whether or not it will happen is not a matter of want or desire between them but a matter of duty, of the alliance their union symbolizes, and the child that would further cement that bond. The bloodline such a union would create. 

And yet—he wants it, and he wants her wanting.

Mito turns her head to him and her great black eyes are expressionless, as still and as sharp as obsidian, and her voice is entirely free of inflection when she says, “Go on.” 

Tobirama loosens the tie of her robe and it falls open around her, exposing soft bare skin. Mito closes her eyes and rests her head, her body naked but carrying a degree of tension in it, tension that does not ebb as Tobirama reaches up and slides her robe off of one shoulder, tracing a sharp collarbone, the valley between her breasts.

Between them, there is no shame in their nakedness; they are shinobi, and such a weakness is practically unknown to them. There’s an intimacy that cannot be stripped from what they do, however, no matter how desensitized they’ve become to it.

Mito’s breaths are steady as Tobirama’s fingers trail over the bumps in her ribs, the round curves of her hips, and roam downward to the firmness of her thighs. Her leg straightens and jerks when the pad of his thumb strokes over her kneecap, and he pauses. Mito’s throat bobs as she takes in a deep breath, and her leg slackens under him. 

It is acquiescence, and yet this is not exactly what he wants. It is not what she deserves, either. 

Tobirama turns over and settles between her legs, and again Mito offers no resistance. He places one soft kiss next to his thumb, over the top of her knee, and she shudders, the tiniest sigh escaping her lips. He kisses her again, over the top of her thigh, and again, and again, and again, drawing further up the inside of her thigh until she lets out a choked moan and her hips buck upward to meet him, one hand fisting in the bedsheets. 

He places one more kiss to her bare stomach, his thumbs resting in the cradle of her hips. “I would like to continue,” he whispers, and hears Mito’s sharp intake of breath. “If you would allow it.”

She says nothing but reaches down, her fingers tangling into the coarseness of his hair, nails dragging over his scalp, pulling him closer to her. It’s encouraging, and yet he would prefer she be explicit in this. He gives her a light squeeze, and feels her legs slacken to allow him more room between them. “Mito?”

She’s silent for a moment, but finally says, “Please, continue,” her voice on the verge of breathlessness.  
.  
.  
.  
The next morning Tobirama awakens with Mito draped over his chest, one of her arms looped around his neck. Her hair covers the both of them as though it were an additional sheet, strands of it lying across his cheek and curled about his waist.

He is, quite literally, tangled up in her. 

It is, perhaps, not the worst way to wake up. He sighs and, clearing his throat and his thoughts, tries to wiggle out from beneath her, would prefer not to disturb her when she’s sleeping so peacefully. Collapsing onto the bed after he has hiarashinned away would almost certain wake Mito, and she would almost certainly find such a thing rather impolite.

Tobirama manages to free half of his body from Mito’s grasp before her other arm tightens around his waist, holding him to her. Her breathing evens out, and he can tell she’s awake.

“Apologies,” he whispers, hesitating before placing one hand on the small of her back. She lifts her head, and even in the hazy early morning light Mito’s eyes are as striking as ever.

“You are leaving now?” she asks, her voice low but lacking any drowsiness from sleep. As she rises, the sheet covering them slips down her back, baring her naked shoulders. Tobirama’s breath stutters when he realizes she has, for the first time, neglected to redress before falling asleep. 

Well. It isn’t as if he hasn’t seen his wife undressed before. 

It is the early morning, Tobirama reminds himself, and it makes sense that his mouth would be dry. He went to bed early, maybe, and did not have time for a glass of water as he usually does. 

Tobirama lies back, and allows himself just a moment to guide his hand up and down her back, to feel Mito’s smooth, naked skin, her warm breath against his neck.

His wife. 

“Soon,” he says, though he begins to contemplate whether or not his presence is truly needed so early. He mentally reviews his unfinished tasks from the day before: half-written reports, briefings Hashirama will need for meetings in the upcoming days.

His work, unfortunately, requires his attention.

Tobirama lies with Mito for a few more minutes before he detangles himself from her arms and her hair and begins to dress for work. 

“I will see you tonight,” he says, but Mito only turns over in bed, away from him.  
.  
.  
.  
The seasons change, and very little changes with them. 

Tobirama is more mindful of Mito, and yet damage has been done that he cannot seem to correct. 

She hates the winter in Konoha. The temperature stumbles and falls and is unable to right itself, unable to rise from the depths of their thermometer. Mito eyes their frosted windows with barely concealed dislike, and when she lifts a hand to adjust one of her barrettes he notices her hands are cracked and reddened from the dry wind and the cold. 

They’re hardly injuries, barely inconveniences, but Mito’s smile is tender and genuine when, at dinner one night, Hashirama holds her hands in his and the redness dissipates, the cracks in her skin healing under his touch.

“Ah, yes, but it must inconvenience you a good deal in your fuuinjutsu, doesn’t it, Mito?” Hashirama says, patting the top of her hand when he’s finished. 

Mito’s eyebrows raise, and she holds her hands out curiously. “This will make it much easier, to be sure. Thank you, Hashirama.” 

It seems some things can be fixed so easily, and this is yet another skill of Hashirama’s that Tobirama cannot hope to match. 

“Allow yourself to be soft with her, Tobi,” his brother croons when Mito excuses herself to wash her hands, still staring down to admire her newly healed skin. Hashirama rests his head thoughtfully on his hands, his eyes dreamy, his head full of ridiculous romantic fantasies. “Aren’t you far ahead enough in your work to spend some time with her?”

Madara sneers from the other side of the table where, so far, he’s been minimally disruptive. “Perhaps you might attempt to look happy for the first time in your life.” The Uchiha leans back on his arms, tilting his head back to make eye contact with his husband. “Hashirama, isn’t it possible that your sister-in-law is upset because she’s been wed to a defective man? Certainly by now she’s seen both of your brother’s emotions, and has found neither particularly tasteful.” 

A quick suiton takes care of Madara’s arrogant smirk, but still his words are troubling. It would be unwise, too, to ignore his brother’s suggestion, but Mito returns to the dining room, gives Madara’s soaked robes a baffled look, and Tobirama quickly buries the previous conversation.  
.  
.  
.  
Mito does her best to shield herself from the cold, tightening the locks on their windows and taping extra seals over the panes to trap any scraps of heat within the house, the rush of chakra stifling the airflow. 

It’s made her significantly more irritable, but Tobirama see an opportunity in it. His brother had, after all, suggested using the cold to his advantage, and the cold bothers him much less than it bothers Mito. 

Tobirama intends to wait at the front door for Mito to dress and then walk into the village together, except it takes her longer than he imagined it would, nearly fifteen minutes after she opens her bedroom drawers and began assembling her outfit. 

He stands at the door and tries not to think too much of the time, but finally she walks into the kitchen, donning several layers of jackets and sweaters. She’s in the process of buttoning a heavy coat over all of it, the open collar pulled so high he can barely see her ears, the layers so thick her arms do not bend normally. 

“I was waiting for you,” he remarks, but Mito doesn’t respond. “It took you a good deal of time to dress…” He thinks of what Hashirama might say, how he would get Mito’s attention, make her smile. “Perhaps you might allow me to help you in the future…” 

Mito throws him an irritated look, black eyes flashing. “I do not need your help,” she hisses, her teeth unnaturally white in the early morning light, almost vicious. 

She backs away, composing her face again, adding, “Uzushio was never so unpleasant,” before she yanks the door open and storms away, slamming it to prevent him from following her.  
.  
.  
.  
Mito adapts.

It is days later that Tobirama sees familiar black lines drawn inside the sleeves of a flimsy shawl, and Mito steps out into the snow wearing only that shawl over her robe, her head held high as if she could not feel the cold at all.  
.  
.  
.  
Unlike Hashirama, Tobirama has never been to Uzushio, has never seen its near-mythic volcanoes or supposedly endless beaches. Even outside of Uzushio, he’s never visited an ocean or any body of water greater than the few meandering streams around the village. 

He has never left the territory that encompasses the Land of Fire. 

What he does know, however, is research. Experimentation. Suiton is his specialty, and this gives him a starting point, a handful of ideas he prods and plays off of each other until he has something of a plan. 

He starts in the backyard, clearing away snow and soggy leaves, knowing that using katon on snow only turns it into ice.

Winter warms into spring and Mito discards her modified jackets and shawls, returning to her traditional robes. Her face has lost some of its color since the wedding, her tanned cheeks faded to a milder pink, a paleness that stands out under the darkness of her hair, seems almost sickly to him.

There are logical explanations for this: winter has only just ended, and Mito has naturally spent more time inside. The sun in Konoha is much weaker than the one in Uzushio. They’re explanations that make sense to Tobirama, but don’t seem to catch the full of it. 

He can’t help but think he is the root of her troubles.

Tobirama equips himself with a shovel and begins marking several boundaries in the backyard, testing the soil with a few tentative pokes before he begins to dig, thinking of Mito as he works. 

Mito, who sits at her vanity each night to brush sparks out of her hair. Mito, who stubbornly wears stark white robes in a village of unpaved streets, regular dust storms. Who is sweet enough to earn Hashirama’s respect, tough enough to stare Madara down when he calls the head of the Inuzuka clan _stubborn, even for a woman._

Mito, who is his wife. Who deserves a husband in turn. 

Mito, who does not pay his comings and goings much mind as he works. She’s become accustomed to their separate lives, moving about the house as if they were only inconvenient housemates. 

She leaves each day to meet with her host of acquaintances and does not look back.  
.  
.  
.  
His project is more consuming than he originally anticipated, but when he tells Hashirama he will need to leave work early his brother only grins and waves him off.  
.  
.  
.  
Being home early means he is now home when Mito is home, that they are, even indirectly, together much more often.

Mito looks at him over dinner one night and can’t seem to restrain herself from saying, “It is unusual to see you home at such an hour.”

“I like being able to see you,” he says, because he does. He likes it quite a bit, even if the feeling is not entirely reciprocated. Mito raises a fine eyebrow, skepticism plain on her face. 

“Do you now.” It ought to be a question but her tone is too dry, too disinterested to make it into one. “It is almost as if you were my husband.”

Her frustration, he supposes, is only natural. He thinks briefly about how his brother might respond, but decides an honest response would be the best. “I love seeing you.”

“Hm.” 

“I love you.” It is, after all, only the truth. 

Mito freezes, teacup in hand. She stares blankly at him, mouth agape, before coming to herself with an uncharacteristic snort, shaking her head and placing her teacup back on the table. “Well. Okay.”  
.  
.  
.  
He finishes his project, eventually. It is late in the evening when he does, however, and so he goes inside to shower, washing off the dirt he’s accumulated before sinking down into bed next to Mito, who has already fallen asleep.

They wake up together, her hair coiled around his fingers. He leans over to place a single kiss to the center of her forehead, over the purple seal that, he thinks, he ought to ask about some time soon. At a better moment. 

Mito cracks an eye open with the tiniest quirk at the corner of her mouth. “You ought to be leaving soon.”

“The work will be there no matter when I arrive.”

She hums, but says nothing more.

“I’d like you to see something first.”  
.  
.  
.  
Mito stands in their backyard, her robe wrapped tightly around her. “I don’t quite understand,” she eventually says, her eyes shifty. “It is a pool of water?” 

“Ahh…” He clears his throat. “Yes, a pool of water.”

Mito nods, unusually diplomatic. “That is… Very nice.” She turns, looking back towards the house, her close-lipped smile uneasy. “I think I’ll be going in now. Your pool is, ah. Well, you’ve made a nice pool.”

She begins to walk back and Tobirama grabs for her hand and she looks painfully confused, unbearably uncomfortable. “It, ah. It’s not just a pool.” Her hand is so beautifully warm in his, the calluses on her palm wonderfully smooth. “Well. It’s more of a pond. It’s… it’s a saltwater pond. It has sand in it. As a beach does.” He clears his throat. “Like, ah, Uzushio.” He pulls his hand back but Mito does not back away, stands across from him as if seeing him for the first time. 

“I believe you miss your home,” he clarifies. “And I believe it is my place to make this a suitable home for you.”

Mito watches him for a long moment, then gathers her skirts in her hand and walks to the edge of the pond, swallowing and bringing a hand to her mouth as if she were going to say something. She doesn’t, her lips pressed together as she gazes down, her reflection staring back up as if it’s never seen the sky before.

He says nothing. Instead, he waits, and he listens. 

Mito says nothing.

He waits another minute and Mito raises a hand, brushes away invisible hairs, crosses her arms and hugs herself. Still says nothing. 

Well. He has always understood actions to have greater meaning than words.

Tobirama slips off his sandals and rolls the ends of his pants to his knees, high enough that they won’t get wet.

The water is ice-cold when he steps into it, the surface rippling. In the back of his mind he’s already calculating how he might fix this, if he could craft some seal or find an external heating source capable of warming the pool, if it might allow him to introduce sea stars or anemones to it, something more fitting, more familiar to Mito, but he tucks those thoughts away for a time when his attention can be spared. 

He wades further in, the sand coarse but hardly painful under the soles of his feet, clouds of it rising in his wake. 

He turns, and offers Mito his hand. 

She hesitates a moment, draws back self-consciously but then meets his eyes, the thin line of her lips relaxing into a small, unusually soft smile. Mito transfers her skirts to her one hand and reaches for his with her other, allowing him to help her down into the water next to him.

Tobirama looks down and sees her toes wiggle in the sand, digging further down.

“It even feels like real sand,” she remarks, wonder in her voice. Her smile is a small, precious thing and Tobirama wonders if she is even aware of it. 

“It absolutely is real sand,” he huffs, tucking his other hand into his pocket. “I ground the limestone myself. Of course the definition of sand is quite broad, encompassing several combinations of elements, but my research suggested that Uzushio sand would be as coarse as this, more reflective of the abundance of shellfish found there.” He pauses, and looks to her. “I hope that’s right.”

Mito seems unusually pleased by his asking. “It is.”

Tobirama pulls his hand out of hers, scratching his chin, “Well, that is good to know because—” but, before he can complete his thought, Mito reaches up and grabs him by his collar, tugging him down, her grip on his shirt vicelike as she brings their lips together. 

She laughs into the kiss, and Tobirama can feel the vibrations of it through her mouth. She pulls away, only to shake her head. “You… are the silliest man,” she remarks. 

With that, she finally releases him, and Tobirama turns away, blushing. 

“You are my wife. I… I believe it is time I began to act in a way that is deserving of it.”

He hears Mito giggle, the sound so unlike her it’s almost startling, but not one bit unpleasant. Seconds later the back of her hand taps his, her fingers intertwining with his own.

“Then, as you are my husband, I will do the same.”

**Author's Note:**

> I love my red-headed Uzumaki women so much...
> 
> Thank you so much for reading, and I appreciate every single view, kudos, comment... all of it! 
> 
> I love you all dearly!


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